


they don't give a fuck about you like I do

by thesaddestboner



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Gen, M/M, Not!Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-26
Updated: 2017-07-26
Packaged: 2018-12-07 03:06:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11614593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesaddestboner/pseuds/thesaddestboner
Summary: Verlander thrusts a hand out to Max and he looks at it blankly before realizing Verlander means for them to shake on the deal.  He wraps his fingers around that blessed right hand of Verlander’s and shakes, wondering if maybe he’ll soak up a little of Verlander’s talent through osmosis or something.





	they don't give a fuck about you like I do

**Author's Note:**

> This was gonna be a serial killer AU where Justin and Max are a killing team but I never did anything with it. So I'm foisting it off onto the internets.
> 
> Hastily nabbed title from "Pet," by A Perfect Circle.
> 
> You can find me on [twitter](http://twitter.com/thesaddestboner) and [tumblr](http://saddestboner.tumblr.com).

Max is sitting by himself in the dining area, working on a bland, overcooked hockey puck masquerading as a hamburger and flipping through the latest issue of _The Hockey News_ when the sound of metal scraping against the ground seizes hold of his attention and he looks over at the source of the unfriendly noise.

“Hey, mind if I join you?” Justin Verlander doesn’t wait for a response, just drops his tray —which is empty, save an apple—on the table and plops down in the seat opposite Max. The apple rolls off the plastic tray and toward the edge of the table, but Verlander grabs it before it can tumble to its certain demise.

“Hey,” Max says, putting down _The Hockey News_. “What’s up?”

Verlander shines the apple on the sleeve of his t-shirt and bites into it. “Nothin’ much,” he says, mouth full. He swipes the back of his hand across his mouth. “What about you? You like hockey? Thought you were from Arizona.” He pokes at the magazine.

“Arizona by way of St. Louis, Missouri,” Max says. “I’m a Blues fan.”

Verlander takes another bite of his apple. “Been in Detroit long enough the Wings’ve grown on me. Don’t really care much about the sport outside of that, though.”

“It’s—interesting, I guess,” Max says.

Verlander starts to laugh. “Are you always this boring?” He leans back on the back two legs of the metal chair and puts his feet up on the table.

Max stares at him. “What? I’m not boring. What kind of question is that to ask the new guy, anyway?”

The corner of Verlander’s mouth ticks up briefly in a half-smirk. “I guess it doesn’t matter. I can do boring. Boring is workable.”

Max laughs and shakes his head, picking up _The Hockey News_ and flipping it open, thumbing to the magazine’s season preview of the Blues. “You’re talking like I’m some new pet project of yours or something.”

Verlander leans forward in his seat and twists his mouth into a thin smile. “Maybe you are.”

Max feels the need to point out the obvious. “This is a weird conversation.”

“Obviously not that weird or you would’ve left by now,” Verlander counters, slipping into that sharp smirk of his effortlessly. His eyes twinkle. “Unless you _like_ weird.”

“Never said it was bad,” Max says, laughing quietly. He finally gives up on finishing his magazine and puts it aside. “Now what?”

“We’re going out tonight, you and me,” Verlander says, leaning in, across the table.

Max finds himself leaning back just the slightest bit as Verlander slips into his personal space like he belongs there, like he’s been invited. “Yeah? Where?”

Verlander raps his knuckles lightly on the tabletop. “Me and some of the guys are hitting up G Bar. It’s this nightclub out in Ybor City. I hear it’s pretty sweet. And the chicks are all tens.”

“They usually are,” Max says, snorting.

Verlander leans back and crosses his long, lanky arms over his chest, tucking his thumb in the crook of his elbow. “So, I’ll swing by and pick you up around eight? Where’re you staying? I got a condo here in town, think most of the guys do, but I dunno about you newbs.”

“I’ve been living out of my suitcase in a hotel,” Max admits, cheeks warming in shame. “It’s a pretty nice hotel, though.”

“That just won’t do,” Verlander says, shaking his head and _tsk_ ing a couple times at him like his mother does when he’s done something to earn her reproach.

“It’s not too expensive, and there’s a gym and a pool—” Max starts, but Verlander cuts him short with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“You can stay with me and my fiancée at our place, if you want. We got a spare room.”

“You sure she wouldn’t mind?” Max asks.

Verlander smirks at him again. “ ’Course not.”

“Well,” Max says, pretending to mull this over. “Okay, then. I’m in.”

Verlander thrusts a hand out to Max and he looks at it blankly before realizing Verlander means for them to shake on the deal. He wraps his fingers around that blessed right hand of Verlander’s and shakes, wondering if maybe he’ll soak up a little of Verlander’s talent through osmosis or something. 

_The transitive property of Justin Verlander’s blazing fastball_. Max smiles, pausing a few moments before slipping his hand away.

-

Max steps out of his building, letting the door slam shut heavily behind him, and finds Verlander leaning casually against the hood of his cherry-red Ferrari, picking at his nails and looking bored.

“How long’ve you been waiting?” Max asks, letting his eyes skim over the sleek lines of Verlander’s gleaming red sportscar. Max has never been much of a car guy—he appreciates a good-looking car but mostly just on an aesthetic level; some guys take it to obsessive and creepy heights—and even he has to admit Verlander’s Ferrari is pretty impressive. It even looks like he took the time to have it detailed.

Verlander pushes away from the hood of the car and shoves his hands into the pockets of his immaculately pressed gray wool slacks. “Just a little while.”

“You could’ve called up and I would’ve been right down,” Max says.

Verlander shrugs and twirls his keys around on his index finger. “Whatever, man, no sweat off my back. You ready to go?”

**Author's Note:**

> The author of this piece intends no insult, slander, or copyright infringement, and is not profiting from this work. This story is a complete work of fiction and does not necessarily reflect on the nature of the individuals featured. This is for entertainment purposes only. If you found this story while Googling your name or the names of your friends, hit the back button now.


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